But curs'd my fortune more and more
To see her sob and groan,

Alas! the while!

THE NEGLECTED LOVER

CALLETH ON HIS STONY HEARTED MISTRESS TO HEAR HIM
COMPLAIN ERE THAT HE DIE.

1 HEAVEN, and earth, and all that hear me plain
Do well perceive what care doth make me cry;
Save you alone, to whom I cry in vain;
Mercy, Madam, alas! I die, I die!

2 If that you sleep, I humbly you require
Forbear a while, and let your rigour slake,
Since that by you I burn thus in this fire;
To hear my plaint, dear heart, awake! awake!

3 Since that so oft ye have made me to wake

In plaint, and tears, and in right piteous case;
Displease you not if force do now me make
To break your sleep, crying alas! alas!

4 It is the last trouble that ye shall have
Of me, Madam, to hear my last complaint;
Pity at least your poor unhappy slave,
For in despair, alas! I faint, I faint.

5 It is not now, but long and long ago

I have you serv'd, as to my power and might As faithfully as any man might do;

Claiming of you nothing of right, of right

6 Save of your grace only to stay my life That fleeth as fast as cloud before the wind;

For since that first I enter'd in this strife,
An inward death hath fret1 my mind, my mind.

7 If I had suffer'd this to you unware

Mine were the fault, and you nothing to blame; But since you know my woe and all my care,

Why do I die, alas! for shame! for shame!

8 I know right well my face, my look, my tears,
Mine eyes, my words, and eke my dreary chere
Have cried my death full oft unto your ears;
Hard of belief it doth appear, appear.

9 A better proof I see that ye would have;
How I am dead, therefore, when ye hear tell,
Believe it not, although ye see my grave;
Cruel! unkind! I say farewell! farewell!

HE REJOICETH THE OBTAINING THE
FAVOUR OF THE MISTRESS OF HIS HEART.

1 AFTER great storms the calm returns,
And pleasanter it is thereby;
Fortune likewise that often turns,

Hath made me now the most happy.

2 The heaven that pitied my distress,
My just desire, and my cry,
Hath made my languor to cease,
And me also the most happy.

3 Whereto despairèd ye, my friends?
My trust alway in her did lie

16 Fret:' wasted.

That knoweth what my thought intends;
Whereby I live the most happy.

4 Lo! what can take hope from that heart,
That is assured steadfastly;
Hope therefore ye that live in smart,
Whereby I am the most happy.

5 And I that have felt of your pain
Shall pray to God continually,
To make your hope, your health retain,
And me also the most happy.

THE LOVER PRAYETH VENUS

TO CONDUCT HIM TO THE DESIRED HAVEN.

1 THOUGH this the port, and I thy servant true,
And thou thyself dost cast thy beams from high
From thy chief house,' promising to renew

Both joy and eke delight, behold yet how that I,
Banished from my bliss, carefully do cry.

Help now Cytherea! my lady dear,

My fearful trust, 'En vogant la galere.'

2 Alas! the doubt that dreadful absence giveth! Without thine aid assurance is there none;

The firm faith that in the water fleteth.

Succour thou therefore, in thee it is alone. Stay that with faith, that faithfully doth moan, Thou also givest me both hope and fear, Remember me then, En vogant la galere.'

1 'Chief house:' in the astrological sense.

3 By seas, and hills elonged from thy sight, Thy wonted grace reducing to my mind, Instead of sleep thus I occupy the night;

A thousand thoughts, and many doubts I find, And still I trust thou canst not be unkind, Or else despair my comfort and my chere Would she forthwith, En vogant la galere.'

4 Yet, on my faith! full little doth remain.

Of any hope whereby I may myself uphold; For since that only words do me retain, I may well think the affection is but cold. But since my will is nothing as I would, And in thy hands it resteth whole and clear, Forget me not, 'En vogant la galere.'

THE LOVER PRAISETH THE BEAUTY OF HIS LADY'S HAND.

Doth strain thy colour fair:
Nature did lend

Each finger's end
A pearl for to repair.

4 Consent at last,
Since that thou hast
My heart in thy demain,
For service true

On me to rue,
And reach me love again.

5 And if not so,

There with more woe
Enforce thyself to strain
This simple heart,
That suffered smart,
And rid it out of pain.

THAT THE EYE BEWRAYETH ALWAY THE SECRET AFFECTIONS OF THE HEART.

1 AND if an eye may save or slay,

And strike more deep than weapon long;

And if an eye by subtle play,

May move one more than any tongue;
How can ye say that I do wrong,

Thus to suspect without desert?
For the
eye is traitor to the heart.

2 To frame all well, I am content
That it were done unweetingly;
But yet I say, (who will assent),
To do but well, do nothing why
That men should deem the contrary;